We Can Be Heroes
by Camunki
Summary: McKinleyopolis has always had two sides. Porcelain's a Good Guy and The Fury is his arch nemesis. It's that simple… right? Kurtofsky, Kurt/Karofsky, Superhero AU.
1. Chapter I - Porcelain

******Title: **We Can Be Heroes******  
Pairing**: Kurtofsky******  
****Rating**: T, but to go up later.**  
****Notes**: This one's been a long time coming. I'm trying to get back into writing, and where better to start than with my favourite genre?**  
****Summary**: McKinleyopolis has always had two sides. Porcelain's a Good Guy and The Fury is his arch nemesis. It's that simple… right?

* * *

**Chapter I - Porcelain**

Ever since Porcelain was a child, he knew there was something _special_ about him…wait, no. Too cliché.

Porcelain never did fit in with his peers – No, too _newspaper._

Porcelain was a Good Guy.

Yes. That was right. Porcelain was a Good Guy. It was his job to be a Good Guy and he loved every minute of it, down to rescuing the screaming civilians and wrestling with the Bad Guys. He loved to save people, to do Good, to jump in and be the hero.

But that was his day job. At night, Kurt Hummel loved to stick on a film, or go to fancy restaurants with good-looking men and have passionate, yet meaningless one-night stands. It was one of the reasons he took the day shift. A lot of the guys at the Agency worked nights and lived ordinary lives during the day, with real jobs and real relationships and friends. Not Kurt. Kurt had never shied away from the limelight, after all. So what if it meant he could never stick around long in a relationship, just in case the guy finally connected his face with one of the masked ones that always seemed to be in the paper?

It had happened. Quite a few times, actually, but it was okay. Kurt just sucked it up, left, and the next day he was a new face, a new smile, new hair and eye color. Or maybe this week he'd be a busty woman, if he felt particularly horny or he'd exhausted the gay bars. Not like there was a man on earth that would be able to tell the difference. Kurt's gender became more fluid the more in need he was of a good fuck.

The name Porcelain had been a joke, at first. He'd had the unfortunate incident of fighting Sue Sylvester, a villain so evil she didn't even bother with an alias, though occasionally she made people call her _General Zod_. She'd started calling him Porcelain because he looked so dainty, like he'd break at the slightest touch. Of course, she'd then thrown him off a building, and everyone had marveled as he stood up, scowling, but without a scratch. Being invulnerable had its perks, after all. Since then, Frankenteen, a giant of a guy who was the result of some weird DNA combining experiment, had latched onto the nickname, and it had stuck. Kurt didn't mind too much; he was in the midst of trying to find a name anyway and nothing seemed to describe his primary powers. He'd thought about _Morph_ and some other variations, but his name choice was as fickle as his continually changing body.

His actual powers also included mimicry and power absorption, and they were just as important as the shapeshifting. He'd obtained the invulnerability from his first boyfriend, a hero called Nightbird from Daltonville who had gone on to join an elite hero force that was a sort of private version of the Good Guys. He'd been a nice guy, and a great hero, but even invulnerability was no good when one of Snix's psychic razors had accidently caught him between the eyeballs. He'd never been much good at mental defense, that boy.

Kurt checked the alarm clock beside him and gave a low moan. His shift started in an hour and he hadn't even moved. Not to mention he must have been having a particularly good dream before he was woken up, because he could feel its lingering effects between his legs. He didn't have time for this. Today was a big day, the Bad Guys had issued a warning that they were hitting one of the major banks, and Kurt was about 90% sure that The Fury was somehow involved. And when The Fury was involved, Porcelain was always right there to stand against him.

After all, that's what arch-nemeses were for, right?

He got up and padded into his bathroom, stepping into the shower. He was late, so it would have to be a quick one. He would have to resist the urge to deal with his little problem by hand. Sighing, he turned the water on cold, shivering and sending a glare downwards. He could just use his powers, but it sometimes left a very uncomfortable feeling if he did, and he wasn't in the mood to be female today.

After washing himself as fast as he could, he dried up and brushed his teeth, regarding his reflection in the mirror. He'd been using the same body for a little while, a youngish male who looked like the amalgamation of two of Kurt's favorite celebrities. The hair was shorter than he was used to, so needed less time and effort, and while he'd started off with the eyes as a sort of dull brown, he'd quickly got bored and turned them violet. He preened in front of the mirror for a few minutes, before walking back into his room to get dressed.

His supersuit hung on the outside of his closet, further proof that he had no one in his life to even hide it from. If he had a boyfriend, it would be folded and hidden under the bed, or surreptitiously stashed in a bottom drawer. He pulled it down carefully and, with a fair bit of effort, slipped it on. Full-bodied skintight suits were extremely practical for fighting because they didn't get caught anything, but they were a _bitch_ to get on.

His suit was custom made. In fact, he had his own designer for his superwear. A new suit every week or so was a little much to expect the Agency to pay for. Kurt liked to change it up, and he utterly _refused_ to wear the standardized uniforms the Agency provided them. You were allowed to customize it however you liked, but as far as Kurt was concerned, it was the same suit underneath and he wasn't going to be the same as _anyone. _Even so, General Schuester had been nice enough to offer to make him one with his own designer team time and time again, but Kurt wouldn't have it. It wasn't like he was lacking in funds; the Agency paid spectacularly well.

This week's suit was sleek and black, one of Kurt's personal favorite looks. It accentuated every good point on whatever body he was currently using, and in this one, he looked absolutely sublime, thank you very much.

A second alarm sounded, this time on his phone. If he didn't leave now, he was definitely going to be late. No time to do his hair, so with a little twitch of an eye, he styled it using his powers, whilst grabbing for his phone to stop the sound.

_1 New Message,_ the screen read. Kurt clicked it and saw the text from Emma Pillsbury, General Schuester's assistant. _Fury confirmed for bank job._ Well, that was a good incentive to hurry up. Deciding to eat at work, he gathered his things, throwing them into a fabulous new man bag and finally leaving the flat.

It was going to be a good day, he could tell. When The Fury was involved, it was usually a good day.

And not just because Kurt _always_ won.

* * *

The bank heist was coming along perfectly for a whole fifteen minutes.

They were already in the vault when the alarm sounded, a new record for them. Z was halfway through saying "Hey, I think we beat the ala-" when the shrill noise had started up.

Yep, The Fury was pretty sure he was part of the worst villain team in the entire League of Doom.

"New record." Z said with a grin. Dave glared at him, knowing his mask was on so Z couldn't see it.

"Let's just grab some money and split, okay? I want to at least pass _one_ mission this year."

"Jeez, you make it sound like we're in _school."_

"If this was school, you'd be a six year senior." Snix cut in, throwing a packet of money at Z and hitting him square on the nose.

"He _was_ a six year senior." Dave muttered, and then dodged as Z's fist went to punch him in the stomach. Probably saved the guy a bruise, too, which you'd think he'd learn after hitting Dave in the armor plenty of times before. Z never was known to be a bright spark. To add further proof, he made another swipe at Dave, who deftly grabbed his hand and held it back. Z let out a low growl, and Dave suddenly noticed the ice quickly spreading from his hand down Dave's armor. "Hey! Watch the suit!"

"Can you idiots please stop fighting and bag this money before we get arrested again?" Snix yelled, glaring daggers at them. Not literally, of course, though _that_ wasn't a rare occurrence within the group. Luckily, The Fury had equipped his armor with resistance against psychic attacks after the first one had caught him on the side of his head. Snix had been caught between guilt that she could have killed him and anger that Dave had actually survived without going into a coma. She spent the rest of the day getting teased by Z, like they did whenever someone's powers went on the fritz.

Not that Dave had to worry about _that._

Dave tossed a few more packs into the bag before tying it off and scoping their exit route with the x-ray function in his helmet. Clear, at the moment. The police were lagging, as per usual. "We're set to go." he told Snix, and she answered with a quick nod, grabbing another packet of money and shoving it down the front of her cleavage. Typical.

"Let's get out of here." she ordered, pointing to their "door," a hole blown in the wall. They clambered out; her first, followed by Z and finally Dave.

In retrospect, Dave should probably have gone first. Then he would have seen the Agents who had just entered right into their exit route and were currently running towards their group.

"_Fuck_." was all he managed to say, before the three of them were thrown backwards into a wall.

* * *

Frankenteen was leading this mission, which was never a good thing in Porcelain's opinion. Whilst it was just great that he could smash through a building with barely any effort, he was certainly lacking in the brain department, and everyone knew that wasn't the way a leader was supposed to work. But Porcelain had never been the type to lead a group. Too much effort, and he always preferred to hang back and look pretty until someone interesting came along to fight. And by interesting, he meant The Fury.

Thankfully, Goldstar was here to keep the big lug under check so he didn't make any stupid decisions. Those two were some of the many Agency members who decided to work in specific teams, although they were more a pair than anything. Goldstar's powers, aside from her impressive combat abilities, consisted of vocal manipulation. In short, she could make people do what she wants by telling them. You should hear her sing.

Either way, she wasn't too bad at strategy, so Porcelain thought they might actually be all right. Last time he was teamed up with Frankenteen, Goldstar was sick, and the elephantine man somehow ended up hanging upside down by his size 20 feet. After managing to take out The Fury, as per usual, Porcelain had to go and rescue him before a whole building exploded, and the whole villain group had escaped. A rare occurrence. The Fury and his gang weren't exactly the best of the League of Doom.

Speaking of which, the place was singing like a bird with a whole litany of alarm bells. As per usual, subtlety was not a key feature of their operation. Or a feature at all.

"Let's head in." Frankenteen pointed to what appeared to be a massive hole in the wall in the back of the bank. Porcelain wondered if they _wanted _to be caught. They followed the route that the team had made and soon enough were close to the vault.

The Fury and his team walked straight into them. Typical. Before any of them could even react, Frankenteen rushed them and threw all three of them back. They slammed hard into a wall, too slow to dodge. "Fuck!" Porcelain heard The Fury curse. Excellent. He was already pissed off.

"Hey there, Fury." he teased, as the armored man stepped towards him.

"It's _The _Fury." his nemesis corrected. This was their routine. Every hero and their nemesis had one, and this was theirs. The banter was slightly different each time, but Porcelain always started with calling him 'Fury' without fail.

He wasn't exactly sure what had started their rivalry. They'd met at a shrink ray job a few years ago and something had just _irked_ him about the man. He thought it was the outfit at first; it was an absolute monstrosity that couldn't decide whether it was armor or mecha, and the colors: a gaudy mix of red and yellow, _really? _But Porcelain knew now that it was more than that.

Porcelain knew his body pretty well.

An indiscriminate crashing noise diverted Porcelain from his thoughts. Goldstar made a break for Snix, and, weaving between three or four psychic razors. She grabbed the girl by the wrist and tried to flip her, but Snix was too strong and managed to pull away, shoving Goldstar to the ground as she did it. Clear of her, she jumped back and shot another razor, which was only just dodged. It caught Goldstar on the shoulder, and though her uniform and the skin underneath stayed intact, the pain that flared up from the hit was more than enough to stop her moving the arm.

All this happened while Frankenteen took on Z, like he always did whenever they fought this particular team. Depending on what group you were set with that week or month, most people usually settled with the same opponent. Porcelain was a little different because he tended to be sent on whatever mission The Fury was on, so no matter what, he knew what he was facing. And if The Fury wasn't there, he'd just take on whatever spare villain was left.

Z started by freezing Frankenteen's feet to the floor and getting a few cold punches in. It seemed to make little difference to the gargantuan hero, but Z wasn't discouraged. Even as Frankenteen broke free and smashed through the ice that Z was surrounding himself with, he just kept on icing, until eventually the huge man slipped and tumbled to the ground with a resounding boom that seemed to shake the building.

Porcelain sighed. Sometimes you had to do everything yourself.

With a deft kick to what he knew was a weak point in The Fury's suit – the back of the knees – he sent his opponent flying. The Fury stumbled to his feet pretty quickly, but definitely not fast enough, because Porcelain was already towering over him, and as the metal-encased man stared upwards, he was met with the gaze of Frankenteen. Well, Porcelain as Frankenteen. He couldn't copy his teammate perfectly, but he had enough of his superhuman strength to pluck The Fury up like he weighed nothing and fling him aside like a ragdoll. Too easy.

Snix was next, and Porcelain always had a bit of fun with her. She was feisty. He leapt towards her, still as Frankenteen, gaining a fair bit of height that would have come crashing down hard, if he hadn't transformed mid-jump. Instead, a lithe foot padded down with barely a sound, and Porcelain rolled his shoulders, adjusting to the sizable breasts that now weighed him down. Porcelain didn't envy Snix; these things were annoying.

He couldn't help but smile when Snix hissed – literally hissed – at him. Another thing about her was that she _hated _being mimicked. Porcelain knew this, after all, there were much easier ways to defeat her than to copy her, but this was way more fun.

A few curse words and a gabble of Spanish he didn't understand later, Snix launched herself at him, her hands glowing with two psychic razors. She aimed straight for his head, but Porcelain had already ducked down and jumped out her way. He had the distinct advantage of carrying the permanent powers he'd acquired over time; his speed and agility were unmatched by her, despite her talent, and his reactions were faster than hers. Added to that his invulnerability, he was pretty much guaranteed to win this.

She barely had time to spin on her heels before he sprang at her, his feet digging hard into her stomach, both winding her and knocking her onto her back. Then, he held her there, pinning her and barely resisting a witty comment, since she seemed adamant in ripping out his hair.

"Go to sleep, Snix." Goldstar's voice emanated from somewhere beside Porcelain, and Snix immediately relaxed underneath him. God, he envied her for that power. He'd tried to copy it many a time, with no success. It was just too advanced.

With Snix down, that only left Z, who was frantically grabbing a helmet. Porcelain knew it was designed to work against powers like Goldstar's. He would have to be quick. He bounded over to Z in a few steps, wishing he had telekinesis, and attempted to wrestle the helmet out of his hands. Almost immediately, he regretted this, as a sudden explosion of pain rippled through his arms. Z's ice crept up his body like the cold of a thousand winters, and it hurt like frostbite ten times over. He staggered backwards, desperately trying to ignore the pain, to morph so he could be warm again, but his powers weren't responding. His body wouldn't shift in its frozen state, so he fell to the floor, whining in Snix's voice, curling up and begging the planet to make this stop.

He could hear shouting and movement, and he knew that he would have to move, have to ignore the pain and just get up to fight. Move. _Move!_

Porcelain dragged himself to his feet, eyebrows furrowed in sheer concentration as he forced his body to shift to someone, _anyone_ but this frozen form.

He didn't mean to become The Fury. The stocky figure was unfamiliar to him; this was the first time he'd worn it. He could feel the thick layer of muscle and that extra chub between him and his clothes and – oh, _that _was going to piss The Fury off – he hadn't copied the suit, so he was dressed in Porcelain's skintight outfit.

The Fury was going to kill him almost as soon as he realized. Ah, yep, there it was: an aggravated shout and a barely dodged punch to the face. "You piece of shit!" he yelled, "Get the hell out of me!"

"That's what she sa- _oof!" _Porcelain let out a low grunt as he was shoved to the ground. The same sort of grunt he heard pretty often, when he was kicking The Fury's ass.

He was having trouble with this body – it was like it didn't fit him properly. This sometimes happened when he shifted into someone for the first time. It had been hours before he could get used to Frankenteen's form, and the worst thing is how hard it was to shift out of it.

Yeah, he was stuck. So now he'd have to fight off The Fury in all his suited up glory, completely and utterly barehanded, in a body that was not only exactly equal to his opponent, but that he couldn't even use properly. Great.

The Fury's suit was damaged, that was a start. Porcelain realized this as an armored fist caught him on the jaw. Clearly, The Fury had self hate issues; he rarely hit _that _hard_. _Pain shot through him, the kind of pain that would put most men out of commission for a few minutes at least. But Porcelain wasn't deterred. As the next fist came down, he reached out and grabbed it with his hands, cursing loudly as The Fury retaliated by shooting out of the guns on his wrist.

Porcelain was bad with bullets. They wouldn't kill him, unless they hit anything vital, but they damn well hurt, and he'd be losing blood. Better than knives, but his invulnerability really worked best against big or blunt objects.

He was getting frantic now, and for fuck's sake, where were his team? He tried to shift again, but his body wasn't having it.

Desperate, he scrambled for some iota of power locked inside The Fury. He begged and pleaded for it to do something, reached inside the part that usually responded by flaring up and doing something spectacular but…nothing. He couldn't feel a thing, not even something crap and totally embarrassing like the ability to make his hair glow pink. So the Fury had been telling the truth all this time. He really had no powers.

Fucking useless. The Fury really was totally reliant on his suit, the suit that Porcelain didn't have.

Right, his suit! If Porcelain could somehow take that out…but, fuck, he was stuck in this body and none of his normal powers would really help out, except…

He'd touched Z briefly, earlier. It was a long shot – Porcelain was never sure how much contact he had to have with someone to steal a bit of their powers, but worth a try. When The Fury's fist swung towards him again, he grasped it, thought the coldest, iciest thoughts he could, and squeezed his eyes shut.

A blast of cold air, a loud cracking sound and a stream of swear words, and Porcelain knew he'd won.

Well, even in a shifting world like Kurt's, some things never changed.


	2. Chapter II - The Fury

**********Title: **We Can Be Heroes**********  
Pairing**: Kurtofsky**********  
****Rating**: M, this chapter.******  
****Notes**: In case you didn't find this fic through tumblr, each chapter has cover art, which you can find at my tumblr (under art and fics) or at my deviantart page. :)  
**********Summary**: McKinleyopolis has always had two sides. Porcelain's a Good Guy and The Fury is his arch nemesis. It's that simple… right?

* * *

**Chapter II – The Fury**

It took them almost two hours for the League to send someone to break them out of jail, so Dave was pretty damn tired by the time he eventually got home. He and Azimio decided to watch a movie at Dave's before they crashed, a typical post-failed mission ritual. Santana had tagged along tonight too, and was stretched out on Dave's other sofa.

"It's not that I don't think Batman's a great superhero and all, I'm just saying I think we could take him." Azimio explained, dangling a piece of pizza above his mouth. He couldn't look more like a frat boy if he tried.

"Are you that stupid? We couldn't take Batman if he had his hands tied behind his back." Santana scoffed. She was checking her phone for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. Dave was surprised she didn't bring it out during the mission; probably afraid someone would steal it and read her sexts.

"If we were the Batman villains, his fucking parents would still be alive." Dave murmured, taking a bite of his own pizza. It tasted a bit too much like blood. His face had gotten pretty mashed in today, after Porcelain had practically smashed his suit apart.

"Batman's parents weren't killed by any big bad villain, they were shot in a mugging. And speak for yourself. Let's see the dude beat me up with his hands frozen." As if they didn't know what that meant, Azimio started to ice up his hands. He was met with two sets of rolling eyes.

"Yeah? And what if he has some sort of flamethrower?"

"Then you blast him with your tech."

Dave snorted. "Come on, dude, my suit isn't anywhere near as good as anything Batman could make." Dave was a pretty good designer, but even the League couldn't fund a fraction of the made up shit that Batman had.

"We could totally take him."

"You're totally a moron." Maybe he said it a bit too harshly, because Azimio's eyebrows shot up like he was concerned.

"What's got your panties in a twist? You've been in a foul mood all week." He snorted, "When was the last time you got laid?"

"None of your fucking business."

Azimio laughed, "That long?"

"If you want to hook up, we should go out this week. You know I can find you a lay, no problems." Santana closed her phone case with a click and shoved it into her pocket, not without a hint of frustration.

"Ugh, no. Too much effort."

"Well, I'm not getting you a whore." Azimio Adams, Sass Level 100.

"Fuck you, I don't want-"

"Shh! The Joker's on screen!" Santana interrupted, throwing a pillow at Azimio and hitting him square in the face. They fell silent for a few minutes, until Azimio burst into laughter as the Joker shoved the guy's head through a pencil.

"Now that's a magic trick." he chuckled. Santana threw another pillow at his shin, hissing at him to shut up. Azimio sat back in his chair, mumbling about her not even watching the movie, just as Santana started playing with her phone again. Dave was kind of curious about why she was obsessed with that thing tonight, but asking her would probably just end with her fist in his face. Santana was fairly protective about her personal life, even to Dave and Azimio, who were probably her closest friends.

Eventually, the film ended and Santana was fast asleep on the sofa. Dave didn't have the heart to wake her up, and so just let her sleep there, trying to be as quiet as possibly as he walked to the door to let Azimio out.

"See you at the president kidnap tomorrow." Azimio said as he left, probably loud enough both to wake Santana up _and_ for the whole building to hear. Great. Dave waved him away, closing the door behind him. Then he threw a blanket over Santana, who somehow slept through all that, and headed to his room. Best get a full night's sleep, especially since they were going to be facing the same team tomorrow.

After all, he was due to lose to Porcelain again.

* * *

"So what is it you want me for this time?" President Figgins asked, bored. He was tied up on a rooftop, and couldn't look less terrified by the situation. Not surprising, really, the man got kidnapped at least once a week by someone from the League.

"Not sure." Snix admitted, checking the ropes. "Sue Sylvester wants some policy change, and apparently she's run out of blackmail material."

"Oh, alright then. So you're not going to try and kill me?"

"Not today, Mr. President." The Fury answered. "Maybe next week."

"Not if we can help it!"

And the cycle starts again. The Fury had to resist rolling his eyes as the hero group made their dramatic entrance, taking poses. He half expected them to bring their own flower petals to throw, so they could waft around them like a shitty girls' manga.

The Fury was in a bad mood today.

"The Agency won't stand by as the powers of evil infect our society!" He stood and pretended to listen as Goldstar prattled on about justice and the powers of good verses evil, wondering briefly if he'd remembered to buy onions at the supermarket that morning. "I, Goldstar, will never let that happen, not as long as-" If he'd forgotten, he would have to order take out, or rumble something up from the cupboard. "You can bet that this will be the last evil deed you ever-" But he'd already defrosted the chicken for tonight, so he should really use it. "Justice will be fulfilled! Right will triumph over wrong, because-" He flicked up the website for the nearest supermarket on his interior screen, and checked their closing times. 10pm. Damn, no way he'd be done with this in ti-

"Fury. We meet again." Porcelain's voice interrupted his thoughts. He closed down the website and concentrated on what was in front of him. Porcelain, with auburn hair now, smirked at him. Asshole.

"It's _The _Fury." He hissed back, reaching out to grab Porcelain. He was too slow and his hand closed around air. With a grunt, Porcelain ducked, dropped down and delivered a low sweep kick to The Fury's shins, with just enough power to flip him onto his front, armor and all. The Fury quickly flung out his arms to break his fall, just as Porcelain's foot drove down onto the back of his neck, forcing him down. With a normal guy, a move like this could dislocate their shoulders or break their arms, but The Fury was heavily protected by his suit, so was saved from damage. It still hurt like a bitch, though.

Cursing, The Fury rolled onto his back and managed to get up before he had to dodge a punch from Porcelain. He wasn't quite sure why the hero insisted on hitting him, when he knew it would amount to very little, but he seemed to get some entertainment out of it.

Oh, well. Time to bring out the big guns. Literally. The Fury activated his arm weapons and took aim at Porcelain's chest. Violet eyes widened with shock, even though he'd seem them a hundred times. A security camera swooped past and The Fury remembered why. Of course, all of this was being filmed. There were channels for watching battles like theirs, 24 hour surveillance into the world of the Hero and the Villain.

The Fury took aim. Shot. Missed.

He knew what was coming. Santana and Z had already been subdued; The Fury could see them out of the corner of his eye. Z had actually managed to take down Frankenteen by putting him in a giant ice cube, but he'd put on his protective helmet too late, and Goldstar had made him handcuff himself.

Snix had done slightly better, she'd learnt from last time and gotten the headgear on the moment she'd seen Goldstar, but just as she was about to shoot a psychic razor at the small woman, she'd been taken down from behind by that invisible chick The Fury had forgotten the name of. No one had even realized she was there.

So that left The Fury and Porcelain. The others were too busy trying to thaw out Frankenteen to disturb them, but The Fury spared a few more glances their way just to check. Bad idea. A sai sword left a heavy scratch in his suit before he could dodge it.

"Distracted?" Porcelain teased, getting ready to land the final blow. He was either going to push The Fury to the ground, grab his helmet and knock him out, or subdue him with one of his other powers.

Not this time. The Fury had had enough. He wanted to _win._

Letting out a war cry that should have made all the heroes turn to them, The Fury surged forward. Porcelain dodged immediately, his face warped with shock. This wasn't part of the routine. He sank to the left, but The Fury knew he would. He met him with a jump to the left and before Porcelain could react, he seized him by the throat and threw him against the nearest wall.

Porcelain let out a high-pitched squeak that didn't suit his current body, writhing and fighting against The Fury's grip, but to no avail. He was pinned, and whilst he was invulnerable, that didn't stop him from dying of asphyxiation. And he couldn't transform properly, not with his head spinning like this. Shit, any minute now he was going to revert back to his original body. It was like a last ditch defense mechanism. _Shit._

His eyes darted everywhere, but The Fury was blocking his view. "Distracted?" Porcelain could only let out a whine. The Fury wouldn't really _kill _him, would he? Was this it? Was this the end? Was he going to die whilst his team had their backs to him?

His eyes rested back on The Fury, and he wished somehow that he could see the villain's face, just for this moment. Was he smiling? Was he really enjoying this? Or was this an act of pure anger? But when The Fury spoke again, all Porcelain could hear was mirth. "Go on, ask me to let you go. _Beg _me. You and I both know I'm not getting out of here free, I don't need to kill you now. So beg, and maybe I'll spare you."

Normally, Porcelain would have replied that he'd rather die than beg anything of The Fury. But now that he was here, seconds away from the darkness, his lungs screaming for air… he would do anything to live.

"Please…" was the last word he croaked out, before the both of them fell unconscious, Porcelain from the lack of oxygen, and The Fury from the giant fist slamming down onto his head.

* * *

When Dave woke up, he was in handcuffs.

He tried to sit up, but the moment he moved, the world spun so hard he had to lie back and close his eyes again. He wasn't sure if he was in a moving vehicle or if it was just in his head, until they went over a bump and he felt his body jerking. Definitely a van of some sort, probably on the way to the police station, or worse, to the Agency.

The station was an easy escape, especially if the whole team was there, just like last time, but the Agency…they were different. They didn't try to punish you, they tried to _convert_ you. And somehow, even though they let you go at the end to 'pursue whatever path you choose', it left a sour taste in Dave's mouth.

He didn't need to be lectured for a day on why he should be a Good Guy rather than a bad one. And it wasn't as if the Agency didn't have their own private ways of convincing you if they _really _wanted you to join them. They had something on everyone, and if they actually cared enough, it would take just a little effort to recruit a bunch of hack villains like themselves.

But there was equilibrium to be kept. No matter how many times he heard the "you should become one of us instead – our state of the art psychiatrists can help you with whatever makes you feel like a bad person…" routine, he knew that it wasn't really sincere. If every bad guy converted, the whole agency would be out of jobs. There'd be the occasional psycho, but nowhere near the scale of the League of Doom. You've got to have the evil, to make the good look good.

After the dizziness had subsided a little, Dave tried to sit up again. He managed this time, and, blinking into the darkness, he could see that Snix and Z were there too, handcuffed like he was. Snix appeared to be either unconscious or asleep, and Z was rubbing his head and muttering something about white girls and their stupid voices.

They'd taken off Dave's helmet and the main body of his armor off, but they apparently couldn't get the arm plates off. Not a wise move. With a little struggle, he activated the GPS system built into the underside of the plate and waited for it to track their location. Meanwhile, he stretched out a foot and poked Snix, who immediately roused to glare at him.

"Wha-" Dave put a finger to his lip and she quieted. Then he pointed to his wrist, knowing that the other would know what he meant. They should have, since they'd been through this countless times before.

Finally, the GPS finished loading. _Shit,_ they were headed out of McKinleyopolis. That meant that they were going to the Agency location on the edge of town, not the police station. Now they had to escape before they got there, or face another few days of useless rehabilitation. Given that this was their third visit this month, it might mean they would just kill them. And Dave really didn't want to die. Not today. Not before knowing whether Porcelain had made it out alive.

Porcelain. Just before Dave had blacked out, the guy's eyes had turned a greeney-blue color and rolled up into his head, and Dave had no idea if he was alive or dead. Not that he cared or anything. He was totally trying to kill him, after all. He wasn't going to let him go, no way. And that whole begging thing definitely wasn't him giving his nemesis a way out.

It was ridiculous that it even got to the point it did. Where the fuck were Porcelain's little team when he threw him against that wall? Did no one see? Or did they just not care? Assholes, the lot of them. And they were supposed to be the good guys. Porcelain could have died!

Yeah, Dave was officially the most pathetic nemesis of all time.

Right, their daring escape. It was going to be a cakewalk, so easy it seemed like the Agency was barely trying. They had to have known that Dave had a laser built into his gloves, right? It took him seconds to cut through his handcuffs and kick them under his seat, and he wasted no time in getting through Snix and Z's.

Snix pushed past him and quickly dismantled the lock on the back door with something she pulled out of her hair – Dave didn't know what it was, nor did he want to. Whilst she assessed how fast they were going, Dave reassembled his armor – kindly left at the side of the van. This was too easy.

With the help of an ice slide, courtesy of Z, they were out a few minutes later. The van drove on, apparently unaware. Dave watched it turn a corner a block away. Way too easy.

Why bother to even catch them in the first place?

* * *

The room was really white. Kurt blinked into the light, hoping he wasn't dead, before his senses returned to him and he realized where he was. The Agency medical facility, no doubt about it. Sitting up, pain shot through him like one of Zizes' lightning bolts. How hard had The Fury thrown him against that wall?

Rachel and Finn were stood vigil by his bedside, and had apparently been there for a while. Kurt had been out cold for at least ten hours now, and they'd rushed over as soon as the paperwork was filled out. God knows they must have been tired. It was quite nice, knowing someone was there for him. If he'd been hit by a car whilst out of work hours, there'd be no one to greet him when he woke up in hospital. Granted, even being hit by a tank would hardly leave a scratch on Kurt, but that wasn't the point.

"Mirror?" he asked, his voice coming out raspy. He should probably check to see who he was.

Rachel handed him one, but she didn't look nervous or horrified so he couldn't have morphed into something awful. He stared into it and bright green eyes stared back at him. The mouth and eyebrows of the body he was using hadn't changed, nor had the hair and overall body structure. But those eyes, that nose and the stark paleness of his skin…a few more seconds in The Fury's grip and he would have turned back into his original body.

It wouldn't have mattered _that _much, theoretically. The only one who would have seen it would have been The Fury, and somehow, his nemesis always seemed to know it was him anyway.

But it would change things. If something were ever to happen to him, Kurt had the security of his original form to run to. One day, if he wanted to leave all of this behind, he could change back and become a normal person again. Only, that would be different if someone, especially The Fury, were to know his true face. It was his last defense, one he'd protected well. Only a few of his friends had seen the real Kurt Hummel.

He spent the next hour listening to his friends worry and, once they finally left, Joe 'The Hart' Hart came to his bedside, smiling gently. Kurt wondered if he'd gotten lucky to be treated by one of the Agency's top healers, or if he just happened to be on duty.

"We're releasing you, but you need to take it easy for the next few days." Joe said, glancing down at the clipboard in his hands and jotting down a note. "I've healed the bruises around your throat. The oxygen deprivation didn't do any serious damage to your body, but I can sense that your powers had an adverse reaction as your body went into shock. Your invulnerability must have buckled under the strain – that's why he was able to bruise you."

"Makes sense." Kurt agreed, rubbing his neck. There was no pain or tenderness, but he could almost feel it, as if just knowing it was meant to be there was enough. And breathing actually did hurt, Kurt suspected the internal damage wasn't something that could just be mended instantly.

Joe continued to scribble on the clipboard. "I need you to put your body under minimum strain. You're going to need to rest your powers."

"What, so I shouldn't use them?"

"Actually, it would probably be best if you returned to your original body for a little while." He tore a piece of paper off and handed it to Kurt, "I've issued you a week off, so no need to come in or anything, but if you want to lie low…"

"Sure." Kurt could spend a few days in, and tell his friends he's recovering. No one needed to see him. He was going to meet Brittany for coffee later…today? Was it today? But she had seen his true form before anyway, when he was younger, so that wouldn't be an issue.

Brittany was one of the few Agents he actually socialized with outside of work. She was different from Goldstar and Frankenteen because she didn't work on the field. There were no disguises, no codenames or pretense when it came to Brittany. She was a sensor, and she worked within the Agency to find new talent and potential threats. She was the best they had, too, able to sense supers in almost the whole city. She had been the one to recruit Kurt.

Kurt had discovered his powers in High School. He'd been a 5'7 skinny kid with pimples, a voice high enough to mark him with a bullseye and a knack for the latest fashion. Add all that together and he might as well have had a _kick-me _sign permanently fixed on his back.

Then, things began to change. It started with a late surge of puberty. In a few months, he'd grown four inches, muscled out a lot and began to look like an adult. It was fast, and he still barely noticed until he towered over his female friends and caught the occasional curious eye in his direction. Those months blessed him with something he'd strived for his entire life.

And then one day, he'd woken up as Kitty Wilde.

There were no words to describe the terror of looking in the mirror and seeing someone else looking back at you. It was like a nightmare, and it took a high-pitched shriek and good ten minutes of pinching whoever's body this was to realize he wasn't asleep. That was the first time he'd actually thanked some holy power for the feminine tonality of his normal voice, because he was able to dash out of the house, shouting goodbye to his father and hoping he sounded at least a little like himself. He also felt slightly ashamed that he had clothes in his closet that not only sort of fit this body but also were entirely passable as female fashion.

By some stretch of a miracle, Kurt didn't see the real Kitty around anywhere when he got to school. Or maybe not a miracle; he remembered a little while later that he'd overheard her complaining about being ill yesterday. Whether he had subconsciously picked her deliberately didn't occur to him until a few days had passed.

He'd wondered around for a while, smiling and interacting with the people around him as authentically as he could. It was going well, until Kitty's current boyfriend had grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a kiss. For a moment, he'd panicked, frozen, before the warmth of prying lips melted him. It was all in the name of authenticity, he told himself. He kept telling himself this as Justin – was it Justin? Something beginning with J – yanked him into a janitor's closet and began to unbutton the blouse Kurt had put on this body.

Making out with a guy in a janitor's closet. It was cliché and so incredibly unusual all at the same time. He knew it was wrong, knew he was lying to the guy, but he couldn't deny the warmth, the weird tingling sensation which was so similar and yet remarkably different from the kind of arousal he was familiar with. He didn't want to stop, and why should he? Justin…or was it Jack? Well, he was clearly enjoying himself; the hardness pressing against Kurt's thigh was proof enough of that.

Somehow, Kurt found his hand sliding down Justin or Jack or James' leg and pressing gently against his trapped erection. He gave a soft groan, mumbled something about him…about _her _being a tease. Kurt's stomach twisted dangerously. A tease, really? He'd show this guy how serious he really was. His fingers played with the other boy's beltline, and before he knew it, he was unbuttoning his jeans and pulling down the fly, sinking to his knees.

He'd never given a blowjob before, but he at least knew that it involved his mouth. And god, did he want to taste Jake's dick. Oh, yeah, _Jake,_ that was his name. It was like every single iota of his repressed sexual frustration was pouring through him at once, and it didn't matter that this was all a lie, the panting moans and the hands sinking into his hair felt pretty damn real to him.

And God, he hoped he was doing this right.

There was no real room for thoughts of technique or to try and imitate the modest amount of porn that Kurt had seen; he worked on instinct, savoring the feel and the taste and the noises. It was over too soon, of course, and he faced that moment of panic as Justin yanked his hair and moaned a jumble of words that made Kurt pull back at least enough to swallow without choking.

"What was that for?" Jake panted as they pulled apart, smiling. But the smile quickly dropped as a look of horror replaced it. As soon as he saw it, Kurt knew he was himself again.

"Hummel?" Jake pushed him back with full force. Kurt fell and crashed into a bucket, knocking a mop into Justin's shoulder. "What the fuck!?"

"I…" Kurt took a deep breath, trying not to freak out too. "I don't know! You just pulled me in here! "

"No, no I didn't! I pulled Kitty in here, I…fuck, you were _her!_ Those are girls' clothes!" he pointed at the light blue blouse and skintight jeans, but Kurt scoffed, even as the guilt clawed up inside him.

"I always wear girls' clothes. I seem to remember you pointing that out on occasion." Jake blustered a little, but said nothing. Kurt wasn't sure how he was going to get away with this, how he would stop Jake from saying anything, and then it occurred to him. "I would never have thought _you _of all people were gay."

It was a shitty move, and years later Kurt would wonder if he'd caused any long term mental damage there, but he wasn't about to admit the truth. And he only had to look at Jake to know the guy wouldn't be saying a thing; his expression was one of pure terror. "I'm not!" he shouted, then quieter, "I didn't… Hummel, if you tell anyone about this-"

"I won't." Kurt answered, like he was doing Jake a favor. Poor guy bolted out of there like…well, like he'd just been blown by a gay guy in a janitor's closet and wanted to get out of there, stat.

And that was the first time Kurt morphed.

It happened more frequently as the year went on, and Kurt slowly learned to control it. One day he'd wake up as a jock, and flit in and out of the locker room showers. Others, he'd be a cheerleader, and those were the fun times. He'd have to be careful never to run into the people he was imitating, and he had a lot of near misses, but he mastered the art of avoidance. In all honesty, the rush of teenage hormones and this newfound power were probably a terrible combination – Kurt did all sorts of things in those months he wasn't proud of. It's not like he'd been a _prude_ before, but some of his actions that year would make his past self balk.

It was all going quite well, until Kurt got in trouble for absenteeism, for when he hadn't checked in as _himself_. The look on his dad's face was enough to stop him morphing for months. He restricted his powers for the privacy of his own bedroom, practicing in front of mirrors and yes, okay, for the occasional masturbatory fantasy. He _was_ a teenager, for crying out loud, and one who had only recently discovered his own sexual appetite. There was something so liberating about being someone else; it meant that he never felt self-conscious, he never had to worry about what people thought about him because he wasn't _him. _

Eventually, though, he was found.

The Agency had plenty of sensors, but Brittany was the one who located him, and she was the one they sent to him, along with a generic suited agent Kurt hadn't seen since. Kurt had run downstairs at the call of his dad, who was looking pretty damn confused at the two people stood at his front door.

"Kurt Hummel?" the agent had asked, reading off what looked like an iPad. "Are you Kurt?" Kurt nodded dumbly, terrified. Brittany, seeing how scared he was, offered a smile. She hadn't been much older than him at the time, maybe a year or two. "It's okay. Mr. Hummel, could we speak to Kurt alone?"

Burt stared between Britt, the agent and Kurt, sighed and waved them in. Brittany didn't move. "Oh, is this your house?" she asked, still smiling.

Blank gazes met her, but the agent just rolled his eyes and walked past her. "Don't mind her, she gets…a little confused sometimes."

It had been a long process, signing up for the Agency. He'd been dubious at first, but they'd started him small and before he was finished with High School, he knew he wanted to do it as a permanent job. It was a good job, even with all the danger. He got to meet (and steal powers from, he later realized) a lot of interesting people, and do good and stuff.

The pay package was a bonus, honest.

But joining the Agency had its downsides too. Kurt was almost constantly in the limelight, not that it was an issue, but having your fake face on reality TV all the time was exhausting. When he wasn't saving the city, he was giving interviews, every time having to prove that he was indeed Porcelain, before wishing McKinleyopolis well and plastering on a big smile. His job was as much performance as it was crime fighting, and tiring as it was, he was one of the best. Every week a new outfit, a new face, a new smile to present to the world. They loved him because he was always changing, always current, shifting yet invariably a spectacle of beauty.

Well, except for now.

An hour or two after the Agency let him go home to his apartment, Kurt stood in front of the mirror. He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it as his pain in his throat seared. Then, he closed his eyes and relaxed his body, breathing out and letting it settle. When he opened his eyes again, the real Kurt Hummel stared back at him.

He stepped back and examined himself. It had been a while since he'd used this body, mostly because he really didn't like it much. He wasn't ashamed of that, after all, no one _really _liked how they looked.

Or maybe that was just what Kurt told himself.

Pale skin, with a smattering of freckles on his shoulders and chest. They covered his face too, but they were less noticeable there. He was slim – toned, even – but he always had a slight curve to his stomach and he was a little…soft. He just looked kind of supple to the touch, no matter how muscled he got. And he hated his eyebrows, because no matter what he did to them, they still seemed to be unruly after five minutes, and don't even get him started on his _nose._

Kurt just generally disliked his body. He'd never felt comfortable in it, perhaps simply because no one had ever let him feel comfortable. Even after his magical growth spurt, there were always people there to kick him into a state of crappy self-esteem. No one had ever treated him like he was _attractive_, at least no one who counted. And yeah, it sucked that he needed the world's verification to feel good about himself, but when he could blink and become someone else, someone _better,_ how could he possibly love what he was born with?

He sighed, tracing a finger along his jaw. All he wanted was to shift, but he knew that wasn't happening. Guess he would just have to stick with it for now.

His mind wondered to what The Fury would do for this week. Would the Agency assign him a temporary nemesis kind of thing? Kurt's stomach twisted at that. Much as he was loath to admit it, he was a little possessive over his arch-rival. The thought that some other agent could be fighting him, exchanging playful banter, pushing and shoving the man, dodging a laser blast and occasionally breaking off some armor to get a glimpse of the flexing muscles underneath…

No, The Fury was _his. _Kurt would have to be extra sure his rival knew that when he returned to duty. He'd have to fight him full throttle, maybe somehow get him out of the suit and press him hard against a wall; assert his position. He just loved the look on The Fury's face whenever he was defenseless, and since Kurt didn't get to see his face very often, it was a rare treat. That panicked glance, his eyes darting and his muscles so tensed they filled out the tightish-but-not-tight-enough black clothes he wore underneath his armor.

Kurt's hand lingered at his waistline, his fingers stroking the skin there. Well, he still had an hour until he was meeting Brittany.

Jerk off, shower, go for coffee with Britt, try and relax. After all, he couldn't do much else right now.

Was this what life was for normal people?


End file.
